Codex genestealer cult free pdf download

Others begin life as dull-witted servitors, given new direction by the hypnotic gaze of a Magus — or even the Patriarch itself — until their single-mindedness is turned towards destruction in the name of the cult.

Their prime war banner is strung with the remains of the Tech-Priest Dominus Ovid Thrensiom, whose obsession with claiming energy for his own use led to the original rebellion of Feinminster Gamma. They are the pioneers, the nomads and the prospectors of their kind. The Cult of the Rusted Claw is constantly on the move. Their willingness to roam across the most hostile reaches of the Imperium in search of settlements means they are hardy and resilient in the extreme.

The Rusted Claw The cult symbol shows the cog of industry being consumed by the great metallophagic wyrm that consumes the unbeliever and his creations alike. Most cults have humble beginnings, but those of the Rusted Claw embrace their disdain for material possessions to the point that it becomes a bitter refusal to accept that anything has lasting value — not even themselves.

They are nihilists all, believing that they are but corroding material in a universe riddled with entropy. Only by being subsumed, by being remade, body and soul, by the unknowable entities they worship, can they ever become something more. Until that day they are nothing more than ambulatory scraps of flesh and bone, tattered cloth and rusting metal — and anyone who thinks differently is a fool in need of a rude awakening.

The cult can trace its beginning to the arid wastes of Newseam, a planet on the eastern edge of the Ultima Segmentum. The sickeningly rich upworlders who control their fate forbid the downtrodden labourers from keeping even the smallest portion of the wealth they dig out from the seams, let alone spending it. This prohibition causes a great degree of ire amongst the populace, who work their fingers to the bone in the name of uncaring masters.

The backbreaking labour of their pick work yields them nothing more than food slops, nutrient paste and a few hours of sleep a night. The embittered underclasses of Newseam proved fertile ground for a new creed.

When the pickaxes of a small work group dug through the remains of a buried spaceship, the subsequent explorations awakened the Genestealer hibernating within.

Working in tandem with their Rogue Trader allies, the prospecting divisions of Newseam spread their worker populace from world to frontier world — and with each of its pioneering expansions, the dark secret at its fringes spread along with it.

Objects exist only to serve, and all material possessions are functional and disposable, just like the flesh that will soon enough rot away to leave only the immortal spirit behind. This wide-roaming Genestealer Cult believes that the emptiness of the void consumes all — even metal.

They see the tarnish of every coin and the rust that eats away at every vehicle as divine entropy brought to their world by their hallowed Patriarch, and they welcome its virulent spread. They hold fast to the fact that all the works of the Imperium will rust away, corroded in body and soul, and that only the void that is left in its place will have true meaning and permanence.

One day, they know, they too will become part of the nothingness beyond — in the meantime, they will speed the dissolution of all civilisations in any way they can. Only when the oppression of the upworlders is gnawed away completely will they be truly free to spread their creed to the four corners of the galaxy.

Eventually all things must give way to the raw and barren truth of the void. The cult is not named idly, for its wargear and vehicles are usually in states of disrepair and corrosion. Some elements of the cult can even rust the metal they touch, leaving russet fingerprints upon every metal up to and including adamantium — there are pict-feeds of Maguses of the Rusted Claw reducing Imperial vehicles to corroded hulks simply by laying hands upon them.

Naturally the cult see this phenomenon as a divine miracle. It was the Kelermorph known as Golden Talon, of the Newseam Saints, who first gilded one of his claws by dipping it in molten gold taken from the Palace of Commerce. This symbolic act of desecration was a potent reminder that though their Oremasters might grind them down, in the fullness of time the cult would take whatever it wanted, and nothing could stop them.

We need but endure. These pistol-wielding figures quickly become folk heroes amongst their kin, leading daring strikes against the pillars of the establishment until the downtrodden masses unite behind them. Being largely nomadic, the cult also has a high proportion of Atalan riders, who roam under the unforgiving suns of the frontier worlds in large mechanised gangs; while they wear leather coats and broad-brimmed hats ostensibly as protection against the elements, they mainly serve to hide their hybridisations from prying eyes.

The spies, saboteurs and rangers of these subcultures use comms links and even orbital communions to report their findings to their war leaders. This allows their Primus and their kin to operate in secret, gently influencing events rather than leading from the front. Those belonging to the Dust Nomad gene-sect of the Rusted Claw may be scruffy and ragged to look upon, but their inner steel has seen them endure against, and even secure hard-won victories over, enemies of far greater manpower and military resource.

Many of their Neophyte Hybrids also wear tabards and robes of scarlet, signifying that they have slaughtered an armed warrior on the orders of their leader.

Zealous to the point of mania, they bring the edifice of the Imperium low to ensure the new order can thrive — even if it costs every life save for the Patriarch itself. The Pauper Princes are devoted worshippers of the Star Children, xenoform gods from beyond that are only ever referred to in veiled terms and implied concepts.

They also revere their own prophets and living saints, who they protect with fierce dedication. They are selfless to an almost alien degree, so faithful to their creed that they will gladly take a bullet for those closer to the Patriarch than they.

They never hesitate to give their lives to protect their war leaders. The Pauper Princes The Pauper Princes use a wyrmform with many limbs, for to them each cultist is but a single talon of a greater life form — the cult itself. Much of the populace lives in the squalid shanty towns that pepper the coasts, their skin badly desiccated by the constant mining of minerals from its barren seas.

The planet exports millions of tonnes of saline cubes every year to those planets in the same sector that have no seas of their own; these are used for scores of purposes, from curing meat to the preparation of healing salves. Word had spread that there was an offshoot of the Imperial cult thriving in the principal spaceport of Senfarr — though the source of its formation, the Purestrain Genestealer that still made its lair on the super-barge Just Strength, remained secret.

The first and most talented demagogue of the cult, Magus Marovitch Tenndarc, spoke with such conviction about a new life amongst the stars that thousands fell under his sway in the space of a few short weeks. Their hybrid infantry will gladly run through hails of bullets if their war leaders ask it of them — for they revere blessed unity above all.

Since that day the cult has had a fierce hatred of Ratlings, and in any war zone that harbours these diminutive Imperial Guardsmen, they will go to great lengths to destroy them — for that which nearly killed their Patriarch may one day finish the job, and this they cannot allow.

As they say amongst the faithful flock, to be one of the Pauper Princes is to live forever — though none admit that it may not always be in the same body, or even anatomy, as that of their birthright. If any cult embodies the unthinking obedience of the Broodmind, it is the Cult of the Pauper Princes.

The zealots of the cult would do literally anything to save their masters. There are reports in Ordo Xenos files of a hundred extreme incidences of self-sacrifice, some so shocking they seem more like the behaviour of an insectile hive than a group of humans.

There are pictfeeds of mutant hybrids running through promethium fires to hurl themselves into the path of oncoming Aggressor Squads, purely to buy their war leaders a few more seconds to escape. There are reports of Neophyte Hybrids making dense walls out of their own bodies in front of their cult leaders, acting as living sandbags to soak up the phosphor bullets of a Kastelan war clade without emitting a single scream of pain. There is even grainy footage of Pauper Princes making mass charges against the giant spiked rams of Ork Bonebreaka wagons so as to jam up their workings and protect their Patriarch — only for the alpha predator to skitter nimbly up the side of a building without looking back.

When a sudden invasion of Orks from within the Great Rift threatened to capsize the Vigilus insurgency before it had truly begun, the Genestealer Cultists found themselves fighting to defend the very holdings they had worked so long to undermine.

It is near impossible to bring the tactic of military decapitation to bear against this cult, for it has a strange prescience when it comes to danger, especially when the heart of its dark organisation is threatened.

With their The Pauper Princes tell one another they are blessed with an uncanny prescience, and on numerous occasions that claim to having a sixth sense has been borne out. On the wartorn planet of Vigilus, at the northern end of the Nachmund Gauntlet, the Pauper Princes had worked for generations to infiltrate every stratum of society.

Though teams of Adeptus Arbites and even elements of the Inquisition had delved into the darkest corners of the world after rumours and reports of disappearances far surpassed the usual threshold, the Genestealer Cult always stayed one step ahead — or at least camouflaged itself so well amongst the populace that they continued their vile agenda without serious hindrance. The Patriarch of that planetary infestation, known as Grandsire Wurm to his faithful worshippers, was so adept at evading pursuit or discovery that it was claimed by his cultists he was as intangible as mist, and could shift from one shadow to another at will.

What began as a devastating but relatively straightforward invasion soon turned into a complex and many-layered war on all fronts. The Magus epitomises their selfless urge to protect their Patriarch — and by extension, all those who echo his form.

They harbour unnumbered bio-horrors amongst their ranks. Its original site of inception is Vejovium III, deep in the east of Segmentum Obscurus; the planet is technically a civilised world, but it was long ago overtaken by the industry of the macro-alchemical distilleries that manufacture its exported medicines. So influential have these complexes become — and the dynastic corporations that rule over them — that everywhere the skyline is ridged with enormous medifactoria.

Given the influence they have over the lives and even anatomies of the populace, the divine comparison is an apt one. The war leaders and Biophaguses of the Twisted Helix think of themselves as a new breed of god-like being, their clay the flesh and blood of those around them, and their creations a blend of human, alien and voidstuff.

These they see as nothing more than experimental subjects, and every skirmish, hostile takeover and even large-scale uprising purely another test bed from which to draw firmer conclusions about their experiments thus far. The spread of this potent chemical saw the populace rendered docile, even bovine in its apathy to anything but the strongest stimulus. When a clutch of Purestrain Genestealers, intended as fodder for more extreme experimentation, reached the planet via the black market, the first of the stevedores to meet one of the Tyranid vanguard organisms face-to-face was no easy prey for his wouldbe corrupter.

The incident was reported to the on-duty overseer, of course, and from there the message reached the highest spires. They subsequently dissected the very xenoforms that had sought to infect them. At the behest of the shadowy individual known only as the Prime Specimen, the implications of this discovery were exhaustively researched. It was eventually concluded that they stood on the threshold of a new evolution — that the xenos gene-pattern was the path to true perfection, and perhaps even immortality.

Under strict test conditions, the aristocracy of Vejovium injected the stuff of the alien into their veins, and began their transformation into something resembling Neophyte Hybrids. In essence, though they had at first evaded the curse that sought to infect them, the lords of Vejovium instead voluntarily started their own transformation into monsters at a far later stage of the cycle.

Sure enough, after many hideous by-blows and aborted experiments, they birthed a new clutch of Genestealers with which to further their agenda — albeit a brood given life in the sterile tubes of a secret medifactoria rather than the incubatory anatomies of infected hosts. These in turn infected new infestation sites, and the Vejovians slowly began to resemble a cult like any other.

So it was that the Genestealer Curse took hold upon Vejovium through a new and disturbing vector. Obsessed with their discovery, the Prime Specimen and his peers widened their research time and time again, venturing into the most bizarre territory in their search for new bioforms that would reinforce their delusions of godhood. They became convinced that to seed their concoctions throughout the people would be to secure their undying loyalty, even worship. Over the years, the imperfections of these bio-alchemical experiments have resulted in a great many monstrosities lurching from the laboratories of the Twisted Helix.

Aberrations, multi-limbed hybrids, hunchbacked brutes Cladebatch Gamma-Jovia is a crucial front-line war asset. Though its Biophagus maintains a veneer of professional detachment, every one of its members has an uncanny strength, and takes a dark pleasure in proving their raw physical might on the battlefield. In times of insurgency, when the Prime Specimen can only achieve his aims through violence rather than subtlety, these monstrous hybrids are released by the thousands.

Injected full of steroidal serums and painkilling salves, they make excellent shock troops, and the Biophaguses who goad them to battle learn much from their performance in live fire — or their grisly demise, should their tortured metabolisms finally give in to the experimental adaptations heaped upon them.

For every star system conquered through horror and violence, there is another that the cult has brought into the fold through the careful application of medicarium exports and subsequent mass indoctrinations.

This process, expertly refined and industrialised on an interplanetary scale, has seen the Twisted Helix spread its curse across the Vejovium System and beyond. Your credit is good enough this time. Simply ingest the contents of one of the purple vials at dusk, and one of the white vials at dawn.

We guarantee you that within a week, you will feel like a new man. Just as the Genestealer can infect a thousand different species, a cult can spread into a thousand different ecosystems and environments, taking new forms and reinventing itself at need. A lynchpin planet that provides the meat of grox, grontock and bovian to the Mawdlin System, Fleishgate has long been taken over by a Genestealer Cult, its primogenitor organism brought to the planet inside the guts of an immature void whale hewn apart for its meat.

The use of the saw-spine wyrm-form, based in part on the meat-cutting machines used in their daily slaughter, is not confined to Fleishgate; it occurs on many industrial agri worlds. Upon the fringes of Ultramar operate the Behemoid Undercult. This hidden organisation is of such cunning it has infested several worlds, despite continued attacks from the Tyrannic War Veterans trained by Ortan Cassius. That creature, known as Old One Eye in the spacefarer tales that surround it, is of such totemic importance to the Undercult that they ritually scar and tattoo themselves, or even cut out their own right eyes, in homage to the creature, seeing it as a prophet of the xenos god they call Behemoth.

The cult infesting the long-forsaken Gleptid Reach claims to worship the Emperor of Mankind in the form of a holy sun that shines in the firmament. In truth, they worship that which lies beyond the sun and stars, those unknowable entities that haunt the black velvet pall of endless night. Their Maguses claim to have seen in their visions a great eclipse that will swallow the sun on the day of reckoning — though they do not realise that the scenes they depict in their holy texts portray not one celestial body before another, but a bio-ship so vast it causes a solar eclipse.

The vicious circular saws used by the Innerwyrm Cult in its work form the basis of its banners and symbols. The one-eyed wyrm-form of the Undercult devours the laurels of those civilised empires it seeks to lay low. The daily grind, we called it. The only variation was the flickering flame of the autocandle at my relic station, sometimes high, sometimes low. My father had died under its light, and his father before him. Life began anew. They worship the resurgent bio-fleet that coils through the Thalassi Sector like some impossibly vast serpent.

Using the relative privacy of orbital stations to mask their spread, the Sons prepare for the day when the hour of ascension arrives, and in doing so damns the sector entire. The vector of infection used by the Sons is inspired by the hive fleet they worship from afar — where the Tyranid ships fill hollow asteroids with egg-like spores and hurl them at the target planet, the Sons stow away on bulk freighters and cargo ships by the thousand.

The cultists of the Blessed Wormlings feed only on the beetles and squirming annelids that burrow through the loam of the graveyard world Masuchi Parr. A sombre brethren who are dark of mood and aspect, they believe that the verminous insects that prey upon the dead inherit the strength of all creatures once they pass into the earth. They preach that, by embracing the ways of the most lowly creatures, they will find a humility that brings them closer to the Star Emperor.

In truth, the deity they refer to is not the Master of Mankind, but the personification of the Great Devourer — the Tyranid race that will one day consume them all. To assail an infestation of the Cult Hydraic is to attack a single tendril of a far greater creature. For hundreds of years this organisation has sent broods of Purestrain Genestealers from the dockyards of Vigilance Quadrex. Though many have been subsequently destroyed, many more have started the Cult Hydraic anew, their colours flown on a dozen worlds across Segmentum Pacificus.

To attack one such node is to invite slow but certain retribution. The wyrm that devours itself is the symbol of the Sons. Only by being consumed will they be born anew.

The sigil of the Blessed Wormlings is segmented, much like the earthcrawling insects they emulate. The many-headed wyrm-form of the Cult Hydraic represents the many cells that make up the greater body. Notabene: Confirmation pending from Ordo X. Of all the xenos scourges plaguing the Imperium, these cult infestations are the most insidious, gathering their strength in the dark and hidden places of civilisation.

By the time the forces of the Imperium are aware of their presence, all too often they have already spread to another planet, infected it from within, and spread again. Each populous world forms another staging post in this elaborate conquest. Provided the Genestealer Cult stays ahead of the Tyranid hive fleet that it draws towards the rich sources of biomass it locates, a cult can theoretically spread until it has reached pandemic proportions and collapsed entire sectors of space.

Even should the Tyranids never appear, the doom of the host populations is assured. For every cult that has been thrust into the light, whether by its own ascendancy or by the burning fires of extermination, there remain a dozen hidden in the dark spaces of the galaxy, waiting for their moment to strike. Taking the shooting stars in the skies of Evergrind as confirmation that celestial rapture is close at hand, the self-proclaimed Last Hierarch, Primus Adamant, puts into motion his plans of conquest.

Using psychic means, the puritan Inquisitor Dethrec Balthagar and his Deathwatch allies root out every last trace of Genestealer infection on the planet. However, a fourth generation cultist with the germ-seed of the alien left the infected world three weeks earlier aboard a cryopod shuttle, and he later returns to his home planet. The burgeoning genesects first take over the lower portions of each teeming hive city, then infect the aristocracy who live a privileged life in the spires above. The gangs who have carved out territory in the lower levels fight to the last bullet, uniting as one in the face of the greater threat, but are eventually overcome by the cultists.

Before the decade is out, the largest hive world in Segmentum Solar is assailed by the burgeoning Genestealer Cult, and the cycle of war begins anew. However, every member of the dynasty is killed when a regiment of Catachan Jungle Fighters uses Moraz III as a training world for their hunt-and-slay tactics. Only the Genestealers escape. Once the Catachans have left the planet, the xenos emerge once more, swiftly becoming the alpha predators of the jungle before beginning the cycle anew.

There they slay the Cult Tendricul in the most thorough fashion, putting every human they find to the sword. Within a year, the symbols of the Cult Tendricul are seen on a dozen planets, including the Aeldari maiden world Virgose. Riots break out in every quadrant as the local citizens take the opportunity to loot, kill and burn, exacting revenge for endless centuries of oppression by their taskmasters.

During the fighting, Primus Adamant is slain by an entrenched heavy weapons team, and with his demise the cult loses much of its cohesion.

By the time the new moon rises, the planet has devolved into a post-apocalyptic bedlam populated by warring tribes, lone scavengers and scuttling half-xenos predators. The 36 Inquisitor Chaegryn of the Ordo Xenos investigates rumours of a hidden religion upon a mining planetoid in the Ghosar System.

He and his requisitioned Tempestus Scions report many anomalous findings before mysteriously reporting that all is well, that last missive followed by ominous silence. The Deathwatch investigate — first with a small group of operatives, then, when they too go missing, in greater force. Chaplain Cassius hand-picks a team of elite operatives to form an Aquila Kill Team, and launches a hunt-and-destroy investigation.

A platoon of Kappic Eagles takes battle to the Genestealers lurking within the shattered pane-habs. They engage the xenos broods in a battle that culminates in a desperate fight against a Tyranid Lictor. The beast is slain, and its lair examined in detail. Amongst them was a single word repeated over and over — Cryptus. A Single Seed The wreckage of the freighter Pegasine, destroyed by the lance strike of an Ordo Xenos corvette, spirals through the skies of the frontier planet Hopefoster.

Most of the debris burns up on entry, but the largest section lands more or less intact. After long weeks spent healing, a single Genestealer survivor awakens in the wreckage. It becomes the Patriarch of the Voidbrood, and after a century of unfettered expansion, its cult rises up to overrun the planet entirely. Tragically, a kernel of truth lurks in the legend of a subterranean monster clad in a cloak of human skin.

Blacklimbed Genestealer Cultists boil out of each underground warren in impossible numbers, first ripping apart the Skitarii maniples sent to quarantine each sinkhole, then attacking the wider populace.

Through the carnage stalks the Patriarch that gave rise to the Gnarling myth, the leathery devotionals tied to its spine billowing in the winds of open war. The area known as the Shield of Baal — that cordon of space that protects the home world of the Blood Angels — is placed on a war footing not a moment too soon.

The warnings found on Vitria prove prescient — tendrils of Hive Fleet Leviathan reach out to consume every living thing in the overpopulated Cryptus System. When a Blood Angels fleet from the neighbouring Baal System arrives to bolster the increasingly desperate defenders, Captain Karlaen of the Archangels leads his brothers under the city in a series of escalating battles that eventually sees the Spawn of Cryptus slain and its vile brood scattered to the stars.

When the research divisions experience a bloody schism twenty years later, the Fire caste are called in, only to find many subterranean research facilities overrun.

The cult discovers the true meaning of parasitism and horror. Within that legendary space hulk, the Blood Angels erase the shame of a former defeat, releasing a poison throughout the behemoth that kills the tens of thousands of Genestealers slumbering in void-hibernation inside its cavernous recesses. In doing so, the Space Marines prevent the vanguard organisms from spreading across the stars, eradicating thousands of potential cults before they have a chance to spawn.

The Orks of Mount Mekaniak are impressed by the massive gargant Clawbeast, a purple monstrosity of beaten metal built with six limbs.

They tear open the tanks and feast on the fleshy bounty within. The Ultramarines 8th Company put down the insurrection at great cost, its massed Assault Marines taking their chainswords to the Genestealers and their kin until none are left alive. The 8th Company returns to Cornucopia. This time it is all but destroyed in the fighting, for the Starchosen have grown strong indeed. On the orders of Chapter Master Calgar himself, the planet is designated Perdita and subjected to Exterminatus.

Shadow of the Leviathan Reports of a new and mighty hive fleet emerge — not from one prime sector, as with Hive Fleets Kraken and Behemoth, but a dozen at once. A wave of insurgencies rises up across Segmentum Solar. Hundreds of Genestealer Cults reveal themselves in the space of a single Terran month. The Deathwatch, spread too thin to halt these unforeseen conquests, seek help from the wider Adeptus Astartes — but to no avail. Beyond Salvation The dusty but adamantium-rich planet of Soharia becomes host to an infestation of the Cult of the Rusted Claw.

Wideroaming, they make little effort to conceal their growing influence. Planetary Governor Endst, loath to inform the proper authorities and hence invite Exterminatus upon his beloved world, resorts to drastic measures of his own. After arranging systematic bio-scans via his extensive collection of servo-skulls, Endst takes great pains to sort those untouched by xenos gene-taint from those who may be compromised.

He does so in secret, for news of a Genestealer Cult insurrection has reached him from the neighbouring world of Ghord Ninth, and he dares not trigger a full uprising just yet. Instead, those deemed pure are gradually secreted in a network of underground bunkers, each locked with a cellular syringe system that keeps it inviolable against the alien.

Only the hardiest and most resourceful escape the firestorms, but unfortunately for Endst, they include a great proportion of outrider cultists from the Rusted Claw.

The years that follow, known as the Dust Hunt, see those same outriders scour the postapocalyptic wastelands for the enclaves of pure-blooded humans forced to ride out the radiation of their own nuclear winter. The Xenos and the Beast An infestation of the Rusted Claw finds it near impossible to move their Magus across the planet of Anacharos at anything faster than a walk.

Securing the aid of their allies in the Bladed Cog, they commission a succession of Munitorum crates made of plastic compounds that are just as hard as steel. With these they are able to spread the war leaders of their cult from one planet to another. When their Primus, the resourceful Fender Threnn, hears word of a nest of Ferro-Beasts in the long-forsaken Yimbo System, he uses the same Munitorum crates to capture the armadillo-like metal-eating monsters by the dozen.

These he sets loose in the spaceports of Anacharos, causing utter havoc as the beasts go into a feeding frenzy amongst the richly appointed vessels. The distraction is used to full effect as the cult rises up against the rich upworlders — who, when attempting to flee the planet, find many of their vessels already half-eaten.

From the courtyard of the famed Ivory Basilicanum, she plants a dart from her serum needler in the jugular vein of the Arch-Cardinal Vidderminster just as he is mid-speech on his balcony. In front of a millions-strong audience of adoring Imperial faithful, the Ministorum leader swells up like a balloon and bursts in a splatter of gore just as he is proclaiming the immunity of the pious man to the insidious scourge of the xenos.

At first, their work goes well — or so it seems — as the temperature in the hives drops to become bearable once more. Then, on what comes to be known as the Day of Eruption, all of the geothermic tunnels overflow at once — worse still, their level is swiftly rising.

The reason for the rising tide of lava is secondary to survival. In their desperation, all the gangs within the hive move to higher ground, fighting their way into the upper spires and eventually overcoming the Spyrer hunters who attempt to repel them through sheer weight of numbers.

Meanwhile, the cultists of the Four-armed Emperor take more and more of the hive for their own territory, and when the lava recedes, use aqua pipes and sluices to harden the metal of the main hive once more. Amongst the melted organic-looking labyrinths of the lower hives, a new order rises — and this time, its deadly tides rise all the way to the top.

In doing so they trigger an uprising of the Cult of the Pauper Princes, who fight the greenskins with great fervour to regain control of the world they were poised to seize. They fight dozens of running battles against the Speed Freeks who form the bulk of the Waaagh!

Control of the wastes passes back and forth as the Imperials counter-attack the xenos invaders, but Vigilus has worse to come. The Chaos invasion that follows sees Abaddon the Despoiler assail the world, and hidden Chaos cults rise up to match their dark faith against the righteous ire of the Pauper Princes.

The planet is brought to the brink of utter destruction. The event is attended in person by Quillmaster-General Retrovetch, the de facto leader of the court and hence the entire planet. From the moment their eyes meet, Retrovetch is spellbound, for the newcomer has something about her that commands instant respect.

So smitten is he that his usual machinations fall by the wayside. Instead he spends every waking moment learning of the new philosophy espoused by Vignostiquod, that of communality in the name of the Holy Sun.

Too late the Court Ingenius realises they are, in reality, worshipping a collective entity that will soon blot out the sun above their world… The Blade Unsheathed The scions of the Bladed Cog, having thrown off their oppressors on Feinminster Gamma, take their crusade against the oppression of the Adeptus Mechanicus to a string of forge worlds across the system — and to the Iron Hands that the priests of Mars call their allies.

They propagate the belief that the Machine Cult is misleading the people of the Imperium by cleaving to the mantra that the flesh is weak, and those without access to cybernetic augmentation prove most receptive to the idea they too have intrinsic value.

The Bladed Cog welcomes the flesh and blood as well as the cyborg, preaching that flesh is clay to be hardened in the kiln of war rather than replaced entirely. In secret training camps they amass their armies of faith, equipping them with the finest wargear the Imperium can provide. When they strike against the Iron Hands of Clan Raukaan on the forge world of Ghoulwright, the resultant techwar sees the planet consumed in the fires of battle.

The Wolf Bites Back When the fortified water reservoirs of Oteck Hivesprawl on Vigilus are corrupted by the Claw of the Thirsting Wyrm, a Space Wolves strike force led by Haldor Icepelt track down the mutant xenos hybrids responsible and put them to the torch.

Several of the Space Marines fall in the battle, and three of their number are trapped in the rubble when the entire district is collapsed by pre-planted explosives. When the Astra Militarum finally reclaims the area, Brand is found wounded and out of ammunition, but alive.

Upon his recovery, his knowledge of the tunnels proves invaluable in the wars to come. By sending the massive grox carcasses to a dozen different worlds in the famously paranoid Fort Adere star system, the Innerwyrm agents bypass the complex bio-scanner protocols that would otherwise have picked up on the biological tissue of the Genestealers smuggled within the meat.

A new ecosystem is born on each of the infested planets, though it is not just grox meat that forms its sustenance. They take to the skies in bulk freighters alongside the vast, sky-spanning bio-ships of the hive fleet, and are ignored entirely by the Tyranids, much as the tiny scavenger-fish is ignored by the goreshark with which it shares a symbiotic bond.

The rest of the Taurensi System is conquered by an invasion of zealous, frothing Genestealer Cultists and the trillions-strong swarms of the Tyranids that they think of as their allies — when in truth, the synapse creatures of the Tyranid hordes see the cultists as little more than ambulatory biomass to be consumed whenever the need arises.

Tiamet Rising Ziaphoria, the repugnant and anomalous jungle planet claimed by Hive Fleet Tiamet, becomes the site of a disturbing new development in the curse of tyrannoforming, the hyper-accelerated biological process that overcomes the prey worlds of the Hive Mind.

There the conquering hive fleets have constructed vast psychic resonators of fleshy, encephalitic material — some the size of mountains, some large enough to cover entire continents. Those who touch the corrupted earth with their bare flesh are instantly brought in thrall to it — and convince their brethren to go back into space as missionaries, carrying the Creed of Tiamet to as many Imperial worlds as possible.

They are the first of dozens of interstellar pilgrimages that seek out Ziaphoria, and in doing so, add to its power.

The Tyranids of Hive Fleet Tiamet defend the planet so ferociously it is declared Quarantine Extremis and abandoned entirely by the Imperium. Only the Deathwatch of nearby Haltmoat — and Inquisitor Kryptman, who comes out of exile to join them — have any inkling of the threat posed by the immense psychic resonator of Tiamet. The theories they discuss long into the night are so wild, and the other threats facing the Imperium so dire, that they are given little credence by the wider Inquisition.

To wage war upon the blinkered servants of the Imperium and soulless vassals of the Omnissiah is a divine right! They worship a false god.

Even the notion of a single deity is foolishness, for the Star Children are the one true power in the universe, and they are legion. Buy the selected items together This item: It was the first army in a really long time where the fluff matched the rules and the army still worked. This website uses cookies to improve your experience while you navigate through the website. Out of these cookies, the cookies that are categorized as necessary are stored on your browser as they are as essential for the working of basic functionalities of the website.

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These cookies do not store any personal information. April 14, admin 0 Comment. This website uses cookies to improve your experience. We'll assume you're ok with this, but you can opt-out if you wish. Warhammer 40k Genestealer Cults Goliath. Your ad here, right now: I imagine there was a Imperial fists chapter keep on a isolated mining world that succumbed to a massed surprise attack of first generation of hybrids. This website uses cookies to improve your experience while you navigate through the website.

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